


phantom faces at the window

by velvetvelour



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Reader-Insert, Reminiscing, Survivor Guilt, basically just reader thinking/talking abt their relationship, but ive seen the musical 1000000 times, but that wasnt really intentional i just now realized theres a throwaway, i have NOT read the book btw, implied complicated vaguely romantic companionship with enj, is mentioned lol, line you could read as that if you so choose. so go wild, ok i guess i sort of implied asexual enjolras, than an actual thought out story or anything, this was more an excuse to practice a specific writing voice, well not far enough to get to les amis, why is the... official tag for survivors guilt incorrect, with enjolras after the massacre, with marius. yeah thats it thats the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetvelour/pseuds/velvetvelour
Summary: Your ill-fated companion loved your words; and so, with ease, you gift him a few more at the place where that brilliant drum ceased to pound in his chest. Perhaps they might find and haunt him as poignantly as his absence now haunts you.
Relationships: Enjolras (Les Misérables)/Reader, Marius Pontmercy & Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	phantom faces at the window

**Author's Note:**

> ok the tags basically covered it but... this is 100% just a les mis colored excuse to practice emulating a very specific overly poetic melodramatic gothic sort of writing voice... it takes place essentially during empty chairs at empty tables but you're just there with marius and i tried to make it at least somewhat interesting to read + also made it reader-insertish because i'm sure this is a fanbase lacking in that sort of thing. there's not much else to say. this is basically wholly based off the musical (and even more specifically about the movie because thats just what i've seen the most) because i am not even close to getting to the introduction of les amis in the book lmfao but presumably this is still at least somewhat readable if you only care abt the book. i hope you enjoy.

Marius holds tensely to your arm as you aid him up the dilapidated staircase, limping with a rhythm that renders your steps unsynchronized, clacking footfalls, both soft and hard, reverberating through the building at random. His jaw is clenched, and the strenuosity of this task only shows in uneven breathing; you can’t tell if he’s hiding the pain from you or from those whose place of exodus you approach.

He sits down on his own, and as neither of you have much to say, his tears run freely soon enough. Nothing could better suit the aftermath of the carnage around you; it is as if the building itself, the jubilant human spirit it held for so long that now decays and grows stale in its air, has possessed Marius as a conduit of the unremittable grief and horror of those days before. Through him, it wails, but his tears remain choked and quiet.

You stand firmly, and you will not cry; not now, at least, you cannot bear to add any volume to the blood soaked into the floorboards of this long-beloved place. Surviving such a heartless massacre keeps a sour, vomitous flavor on your tongue, so persistent that you’re sure nothing will ever taste as it once did again. But there is a duty that comes with your spared life; a vault of memories that must persist so that their hearts will beat eternally as well, in some form or another. Whether it remains solely in the thoughts of you and Marius or woven into the legacy of France for years beyond this time, your vanished friends have indeed stained their lives into the cloth of history, and that will not go to waste.

Marius looks at you, and with a shock, you can see that the pity and sorrow of his countenance now suffers pointedly towards you.

“He was going to marry you,” comes his whimper, strangled through a heavy throat.

A smile tugs lightly at your lips, born of nostalgia, perhaps, or a sad and sullen retrospection. It all seems so miniscule from the perspective you now bear, but to Marius, you know, these matters of the heart are so soulfully paramount. Your dearest companion was the same way, it occurs to you suddenly; it’s only that the object of his beating heart and of his insurmountable love was so fantastically momentous that dying proudly at its feet was the most fulfilling proposal of devotion that he could ever have possibly made. You know well that he was capable of far more love than you could’ve received alone. It wouldn’t feel just to pity yourself over a trait you adored in him so greatly, but you do suppose Ms. Cosette to be a very lucky lady, at least in the regard of her lover’s hierarchy of priorities.

“No, he would not have,” you sigh, with that same melancholy smile, and you’re reminding this to yourself just as much as to your friend beside you. “We both know well that he couldn’t have. Even if he might’ve eventually, of obligation or of convenience, he would not have been a husband. Though, I don’t think I would’ve minded that so much as I should.”

There’s a short, gruff little laugh that accompanies your words--invoked by the quaint thought of your grand Enjolras endeavoring to perform the duties of a husband for absolutely anyone--and Marius cannot join you in it. 

“Not even I could hope to squeeze my merry way between Enjolras and his worshipped Revolution. I would never dare to, anyway; I laid with her plenty as well, though perhaps not so longingly as him. If our lives paled before her grandeur, how wouldn’t our love as well?”

Your love; it feels strange, almost forbidden to refer to it as such. Was it really a love? Was Enjolras in love? You do not fret over any reciprocation of your feelings--you are far removed from any trivial drama one might relate to a schoolyard crush--it’s only that anyone would have likely been laughed right out of the cafe to imply the presence of any profound romance, any real  _ scandal  _ in your unique relationship with him. There is one occasion in particular that comes to mind:

It was not the first time something like this had occurred; when a little rumor, or perhaps a prodding joke circulates whimsically through murmurs with the suggestion that those long, frequent nights you would spend with Enjolras behind closed doors (talking exuberantly and youthfully as though your conversation were the most important story that would ever be told, yet only the two of you were blessed with the gift of understanding it to its fullest intricacy,) were in fact spent in the indecorous comfort of each others’ beds. Now, most any of your friends would’ve seen it as the harmless, fanciful tease that it was--even if  _ you  _ might’ve given off an air of possibility, they certainly knew that Enjolras would have a million thoughts tempestuously swarming his mind before that ribald suggestion would ever come across it. 

But it was that boy, a little younger than the rest of you and still quite new at the time (though he arrived loudly, as though returning to a familiar and shameless place of comfort). Bold and brash, upon hearing whispers of that recurring in-joke and no doubt provoked sufficiently by Grantaire, he came forward with his juvenile curiosity and resolved to settle the “mystery” by asking tactlessly if you were lovers, much louder than the volume of the quiet and somewhat conspiratorial discussion that you and Enjolras were sharing at the time. The face of pure, almost slighted incredulity that appeared dumbly on his pretty face as the words filtered through his head is one of many memories that you must look forward to cherishing in the empty years to come. 

Marius has calmed somewhat; his voice finds sound once again.

“He was against talk of love and similar whims, which he considered so trivial, at the center of our efforts; but even still, it was clear as day that he…” He trails off, finds your eyes, and as he sees your little smile, shakes his head hopelessly. “I thought, perhaps, he would find some understanding in my feelings, if anything for... how he felt for you; but I suppose he was always a stranger to romantic sentiment.”

“I recall the day,” you reminisce. “When you first mentioned your lady, and that look of annoyed confusion he wore, scolding you for your trifling fancies, completely blind to the way he beckoned me close to him most every day, and gave remarkable attentiveness to my comments and assertions no matter the point of discussion. I wish I’d been given the chance to inform him that he was never nearly as subtle and undistracted as he thought himself to be.”

The two of you loved each other dearly, with no room for doubt. It did not look, perhaps, like the dreamy romances of children’ stories, or like this perseverant, serendipitous love that Marius has been fortunate enough to come across in Ms. Cosette, but it was unavoidably, mournfully real. If it was not spoken, it was felt and heard and seen, even in the air around you. If you hadn’t been entrusted with the burden of living, you would happily join him where he rests, and time still has yet to tell if you’ll be able to bear this life without ever again hearing that gentle, steadfast voice.

But enough of this; your thoughts spur your words on once again without hesitation to consider them, an open conduit of your battered heart.

“I tried to convince him many times before; we spoke of it often. The roots of change had not spread deep enough into the hearts of the people to yet warrant such action; we should have waited, should have focused our fervor on rallying-- _ truly _ rallying and assuring the public until we might amass a force utterly insurmountable by our enemy, rather than erecting these mountains of furniture at the very first grand opportunity with the assumption of support. He would not listen to me, not in that regard, and found these doubts of mine cynical. He believed wholeheartedly, with unremitted faith, that the people of France would rise again to the cause; and who wouldn’t believe spiritedly in that assurance as spoken by him? I would daresay that he was the most romantic man I’ve ever known. No one before nor after him could ever hope to love this country and its people as deeply and devoutly as Enjolras did, and of that I am certain. Perhaps that is his legacy; what he leaves behind is his vast and ceaseless love, grand enough to seep into the soil across this land and infect the hearts of every citizen. I don’t think such a thing as that can ever really die.”

Marius, you find, is engrossed, even as little streams still flow freely down his cheeks. “He would be moved to tears by these words you share with me. There is no greater eulogy that could be given.”

A eulogy… You didn’t intend your words to carry such connotations; in fact, you think these little soliloquies of yours have much more in common with the tears that stain Marius’ skin or the melodrama of an opera performance than any homage to the departed. Such spontaneous monologue is much too narcissistic to bestow true respect upon the ones lost to you--from your perspective as the speaker, at least.

“Yes, well… I suppose there was some reason he never let me sit alone.”

Now, when your chuckle ricochets gently against these suffered walls, it is joined by a second one, tightened by strain and grievous sentimentality. The sound connects you the same as though you were grasping each other's hands; you, together, have remained. And now, just as the empty cafe around you, you sit like haunted objects, cold and mauraded and doomed ever to elude completeness. 

“...Does the guilt of living not overcome you?” The question betrays his own answer; but in defining yours, you inflict a contemplative silence. 

“...If I had given up my chance of salvation, of survival, and had chosen distinctly to join our friends in death, I’m sure I would have never heard the end of it, wherever the rest of them have ended up,” is what comes out as you bring your thoughts to light. “No, I can just imagine how angry he would be with me; the look on his face, bitter with scolding disappointment, almost like that of a stern mother. If the attack had not happened when it did, as I found myself cut off from the rest, I would surely have been splayed out in death with our brothers, and left you in your grief alone; and if such timing is not fate, I’m not sure what possibly could be. I suppose it is fitting that the two most devoted to passions away from the fight would be the two predestined to survive, if such a higher power may be at work. Through us, the spirit of our friends might live on, and... perhaps spread.”

“Do you intend to try again? To find others and fight once more to see through the revolution we desired?”

“I am no leader, Marius. In the wake of this tragedy, new revolutionaries may be difficult to find, and I’ll certainly never find someone so perfect a shepherd as him. Perhaps one day, but… no, for now, I could not take this all again so soon, and the possibility of a return to this pain frightens me far too much.”

“What will you do, then?”

You know Marius; one wrong word on your part, and you’ll have him tripping eagerly over himself to offer his help, to open his home, so you’ll have to be careful. “I think I will write. So we do not forget; so our friends cannot be forgotten. As much as it pains me, I would like to remember this until my dying day. And I will not forgive myself if I ever lose my memories of him.”

You don’t remember what it was you said, why he was so eager to leave with you that evening. Some offhanded words had riled him up, got him thinking in that way that made his eyes twinkle, and he needed to get away from the noise and the vivacity, to focus and align his thoughts, and you might as well have been the paper on which he wrote his understanding.

Just before the door, you hesitated, finding that little hint of impatience in his expectant stare as he looked to you in question, and, oh, you hadn’t done this before, but you couldn’t help it. Surely, it was that little buzz of wine that compelled you, because your clear mind would’ve known (or rather, would’ve cared) that Enjolras wasn’t one who could quietly leave without notice, and that, though quite empty the cafe happened to be on that night, you were bound to be noticed by someone as you swooped thoughtlessly forward to press a quiet kiss to his mouth. And, of course, that sweetly dumbfounded expression you received in turn was cut short by a jolted, unbelieving outcry from Courfeyrac as he paused in descending the stairs, before quickly abandoning whatever task he meant to carry out and returning spiritedly up to the others, loudly calling for attention.

Enjolras sighs, resigned, as you bring your fingers to your mouth in surprise of your unintentional spectacle, but there’s something soft in the look he turns to you, his prior impatience reconciled somehow. You leave together still, perhaps a little hastier than you otherwise would have, and even as the door closes behind you, the sounds of laughter and chatter hum through the night air. The second floor window pops open; pointed, scandalous whistles and taunting banter haunt your stroll away from the cafe, and even as he ignores the teasing with composure, the ghost of a smile on his lips is visible even in the darkness.

That incident, you’re sure, was what prompted the persistent rumors and jokes about your supposed affair; any private meetings deemed trysts, and sweet gestures or fond words treated as the height of flirtation or romantic theatre. All in jest, of course--you recall explaining away the well-gossiped evening kiss as an impulsive show of gratitude, a gesture that both transcended and paled before whatever private liaison they were envisioning it as a symbol of. Though each may have their doubts and suspicions, the integrity of your companionship was understood as something that couldn’t simply be designated as either possessing or lacking a romantic element. 

Though it was strange and impulsive the first time, it was certainly not without repetition; you’ll have to take special care to record every unceremonious time you felt the humble press of his lips.

“You’ll do well as a writer,” Marius assures you. “I can imagine no trade that suits you better.”

The admission makes you hum, and your rambling mind stretches towards an occasion you’d heard something similar from the man you adored. It’s a thankless effort to reel your thoughts back in.

“If you’re ever in want of a memoir, I certainly hope you’ll consider my talents to commission.”

“I’d consider no other, my friend.” 

His smile is genuine and tender, his face blotched with awful red, and you won’t be able to remain still forever. You’re seeing him in everything--in each inch of the cafe, in every chair and every table. They’re all haunted by his vacant touch as much as you are. 

The second floor window lingers open still.

In stepping towards it, you wish you could imagine yourself at his side, retreating contentedly down the street, and put yourself in the shoes of the friends who clamored and laughed as you went, but by now, you fear you’ve exhausted the fount of your luck in merely living to see the spectacle that forcefully veils your eyes instead: the blood had all rushed to his head--that which wasn’t leaking down his front--and with vomit rising up your throat, you couldn’t shake the thought that someone ought to find a portraitist before he plummets to the cobblestone below. If he’s doomed only to be remembered, then he’d prefer to be remembered like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is rather short and devoid of substance, but i'd still love to hear anyone's thoughts on it ^__^


End file.
